


wash me

by crunchrapsupreme



Series: girl scouts, greek gods, and car washes [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, this is more like a pre-slash drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crunchrapsupreme/pseuds/crunchrapsupreme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strong jawline, disheveled dark hair damp with sweat, cheeks pink from the summer heat and a splattering of freckles across his nose, and fuck, who <i>is</i> this guy? Jean thought this was supposed to be some silly car washing fundraiser for girl scouts, not greek fucking <i>gods</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wash me

**Author's Note:**

> i saw [this ask](http://syderp.tumblr.com/post/73086781536/jean-going-to-a-carwash-to-get-his-shit-car-cleaned-but) on tumblr and knew it needed to be ficced omfg 
> 
> also up over on [my tumblr](http://crunchrapsupreme.tumblr.com/post/75520667119/wash-me-jean-marco-highschool-au) !

Jean wants to say Eren’s prank was a good one, but in reality, smearing mud all over his shitty ‘91 Taurus didn’t affect him in the slightest because the car is a piece of fucking work anyways. A little extra filth isn’t going to make Jean magically hate Eren even  _more_  (if that’s even  _possible_.).

Although Jean does have to give Eren some props, because the smears of mud caked all over his windows make it a little more than dangerous to drive, so Jean finds himself pulling into the nearest gas station, planning on half-assing a squeegee job before heading home and washing it for real with his dad’s Infomercial Car Washing set that hasn’t even been opened yet.

The sun’s beating down relentlessly, and when Jean cruises carefully into the gas station, a few flakes of dried mud break off and fly back. He briefly hopes there’s nobody driving behind him, because the last thing he needs is an angry, late-twenties, former high school football star beating Jean’s ass because he got a few flakes of dried mud onto his precious used 2004 Mazda.

Jean makes a face, but rolls to a stop when a cheerful looking middle aged woman flags him down before he can pull up to a pump, and her midlife crises of a bob haircut bounces lifelessly as she hurries towards his car.

Jean’s worried for a slight second that she’s going to try and beg him for change. Or a ride. Or  _shit_ maybe she’s a desperate prostitute and she’s going to give him a sob story about being a single mom living out of a motel before trying to suck his dick. He’s almost hesitant to roll down his window, but then he remember he’s in the middle of a gas station parking lot during rush hour on a Friday. If anything bad happens to him, there will at least be  _one_  witness.

She’s grinning bright and hopeful when Jean rolls down his window (only half way because the mud is caked on thick enough to jam his window if he tries to roll it down all the way), and when she waves, Jean sees a sparkling wedding ring adorning her left ring finger. Okay, so, single mother prostituting to take care of her children? Uncheck.

“Hello there!” she says, voice wholly too bubbly, but Jean manages a smile back, reaching over to crank down his AC a few levels so he can hear her better.

“Uh, hi.”

“I couldn’t help but notice that your car is in slight need of a wash!”

Jean tries not to grimace, because  _wow_ , thanks captain fucking obvious. It’s not like he hasn’t gotten enough stares already.

“Uh. Yeah, it’s a little dirty. I was just going to - ”

“Well you’re in luck, sweetie!” The woman grins again, and her voice, though overbearing and loud, is slightly homey, and when Jean finally looks down and sees a painted piece of posterboard in her hands that reads ‘ _GIRL SCOUT CAR WASH ONLY $2!!!!!_ ’ in big, blocky, mismatched lettering, he can’t help but let his shoulders fall in defeat because he knows his mother would yell at him for not letting these small, ravenous children splash a little soap and water on his car. Hey, they might even do a good job, who knows?

When Jean glances back up at the woman, she must see the reluctant ‘yes’ in his face because her grin gets even wider and she’s already walking away, motioning behind her for him to follow. Jean leaves his window rolled down, the waves of heat hitting his face as he cruises slowly over to where the tube vacuums are, and where a nice sized group of eager looking 8 year olds are waiting, sponges in hand.

“You can get out and hang in the convenience store if you want, while the girls wash your car,” the woman says (probably the troop leader, Jean thinks briefly).

Jean shrugs, because he’d really just rather get this over and done with so he can get home and clean up his car for real. “Nah, I’ll just chill in here.”

The woman shrugs before motioning Jean to roll up his window so they can get started, and Jean happily obliges, leaning back in the seat and pulling out his phone. Connie made a bet with him that he couldn’t score up to 10 on Flappy Bird before the end of the week, and he’s determined to wipe the smug smirk right off of that asshole’s face.

He jumps slightly when a herd of giggling girls start roughly scrubbing his windshield, but he doesn’t look up from his phone, cursing quietly as he hits another pipe, coming out with a whopping score of 3 once again. Goddamned fucking _Flappy Bird_ , that stupid piece of shit game.

After a good ten minutes of repeatedly dying (though he did finally make it to 5. Halfway to his goal, thank  _god_ ), Jean sighs and chances a look up and out of the driver’s side window to see if most of the mud has been cleared off by now, and when he comes face to face with  _glistening fucking_ _abs_ , he just about swallows his tongue.

A lean, thoroughly wet body is pressed against the driver’s side window right in Jean’s fucking face, two dusky, pert nipples right in his line of sight, and the dude’s stomach muscles clench with the effort of stretching as the guy reaches his arms up to wash the top of Jean’s car.

Jean’s mouth is suddenly very dry, and he wishes he would’ve taken the lady’s offer of waiting inside the convenience store because when the guy leans back on the balls of his feet and steps back, Jean gets a complete look at his face and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more attractive,  _god_.

A strong jawline, disheveled dark hair damp with sweat, cheeks pink from the summer heat and a splattering of freckles across his nose, and  _damnit_ , Jean knows he’s  _so far gone_  already. Fuck, who  _is_ this guy? He thought this was supposed to be some silly fundraiser for girl scouts, not greek fucking _gods_.

Warm brown eyes meet Jean’s through the window, and Jean feels his face heat up significantly as the guy flashes him a wide smile and tosses his sponge to the side, wiping his hands on his shorts and strolling back up towards Jean’s window, motioning him to roll down the now-clean glass.

Jean’s almost reluctant, because he’s pretty sure he’s slack-jawed and about as red as a tomato right now, but the guy’s smile is warm and calming, and Jean slowly rolls his window down once again, attempting a shaky smile back, hands gripping his phone so tight he’s surprised the screen doesn’t crack.

“Hi!” The guy says, brushing some hair out of his face and ducking down a little so he’s eye-level with Jean.

“Uh. You’re not a girl scout?”

The guy laughs, and Jean wants to sink into a hole and  _die_.

“Nah, I’m just the big brother who came to help out.” His smile softens, and this close up, Jean can almost count each individual freckle across the guy’s cheeks, and something warm flutters around in his stomach suddenly as the guy continues, “Anyways, your car’s all clean now. Been doing some off roading or something? You sure had a lot of mud caked on there.”

There’s laughter in his voice, and Jean runs a hand through his hair nervously. “No, uh. Just some asshole at school. You know.”

The guy smiles sympathetically, and after a few beats of silence, Jean’s remembers  _oh_ , shit. Right. Money.

He fumbles for his wallet before yanking out a five. “Sorry, do you have any change?”

The guy nods and takes the bill from Jean’s hand, and when their fingers brush, Jean feels damp, warm skin from the soapy water and summer heat, and as the dude spins and walks back to the cash box for some change, a whiff of musk and sweat waft into Jean’s car from the guy’s retreating body. Fuck.

Jean wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs, and when he looks back up, the guy is back at his window, holding out a few ones which Jean takes back shakily.

“Oh, also,” the guy starts, leaning down again. “There was some mud caked pretty badly between your tires and shit. I couldn’t get it out with just soap and water. You’re probably gonna need a power washer for that.”

Jean nods carefully, only half paying attention, so when the guy reaches out and grabs Jean’s wrist, positioning a pen over his forearm, Jean almost chokes on his tongue.

“Here,” the guy says, scribbling down his number, and the heat of his fingertips seep through Jean’s skin, almost uncomfortably intimate but still so, so nice. “Text me when you’re free. I have a power washer I can bring over, okay?”

Jean just stays stupidly silent, and when the guy releases his arm, giving him another hopeful smile, Jean coughs a bit and nods.

“Uh. Yeah. Okay.”

Jean curses his eloquence, but the guy doesn’t seem to mind, tucking the pen in his back pocket as he says,

“I’m Marco, by the way.”

“I’m Jean.”

“Cool. See you later then, Jean!”

And then Marco is jogging back over to where the troop of girl scouts are happily taking a break, eating some popsicles in the shade, and Jean reluctant starts his car and puts it into drive, pulling out of the gas station and back on the main road, and when he looks up and sees Marco waving at him, Jean hesitantly waves back, trying to ignore that stupid gross fluttery feeling in his stomach again.

That night, Jean makes it up to score 8 in Flappy Bird, and he tells himself it’s definitely not because of the big, blocky numbers on his forearm he kept glancing at everytime he was about to give up and throw his phone across the room. Nope. Definitely not because of that.

He  _will_  admit, though, that the faint vision of wet, glistening, sweaty, tanned abs in the back of his mind might have helped his motivation just a bit. Possibly.

But Connie doesn’t have to know that.


End file.
